Two Steps Back
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: Burned bridges don't always stay that way. AU based on the idea, "What if Lucas hadn't gone after Wednesday?" Musical-based; rating for safety.
1. A Couple Of Things Get Lost

**A/N:** Complicated story behind this one. I ended up watching a video of Rachel Potter as Glinda in "Wicked;" specifically, the song "Thank Goodness." While I'm a Krysta fan through and through, the combination of the song's lyrics and TAF swirled together in my mind and…well, this is the result. Don't worry; it's strictly AU.

Some of you may remember this chapter as a oneshot previously featured in As We're Slowly Dying. Well...it kind of exploded. Eheheheheh. ^^"

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><p>"Why didn't we get married?"<p>

"I walked away and you didn't follow me."

"And was that all?"

She stared out at the water, watching the ripples break the full moon's reflection. The party continued behind them, strains of music and laughter audible even yards away. Of all the questions she'd considered in the years since they last met, this was the one that still had no answer.

"I guess," she said finally, "it seemed like a bad idea at the time."

Silence stretched between them, full of things neither wanted to say. After a few seconds, Lucas leaned back against one wooden column and laughed quietly.

"Who'd have thought we'd both end up here? Older, wiser, alone at night on a New Jersey pier-"

Wednesday cut him off. "And married to other people."

"Right." He nodded, catching the unspoken warning. "Married to other people. What's he like, anyway?"

"Josh?" she asked, fiddling with the sash of her sky-blue dress. "He's...nice. Sweet, doting, successful, handsome. Has a good job with the company. I can't complain."

Lucas raised one eyebrow. "And what did your parents think of him?"

With a dry chuckle, she replied, "They never met him. I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. I managed a year of Addams-free dating and accepted the minute he proposed. We had the wedding with his family in Connecticut and I haven't been back to New York since."

She tucked back a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail and sighed. "I wanted to go a certain direction, and Josh Wilkerson was the fastest way."

"Do you love him?"

The brunette turned abruptly, gaping at Lucas- who, for his part, still lounged calmly against the column as if he hadn't crossed an unpardonable line.

"I- what kind of question is that?"

"The kind you'd never answer and I'd never ask if not for the fact that we'll probably never see each other again."

"You're crazy," she growled. But her attempt to storm off in righteous indignation was foiled when he stepped in front of her, gripping her shoulders.

"That's right. I'm crazy. Crazy enough to ask questions you haven't even dared to think about, because you're afraid. Imagine that- the fearsome Wednesday Addams, who, and I quote, 'eats scared for breakfast.' But it's true. You're too afraid to consider the possibility that you made a mistake."

Her eyes narrowed. Seven years ago, Lucas would have been bleeding by now.

"Let go, Lucas."

"Make me."

"What?"

Bending his head down slightly to meet her eyes, he said, "Make me let go. Can you still do it?"

The woman rolled her eyes and went limp, relaxing muscles she hadn't realized were tense. "Oh, right," she said, "this is That Scene. The one where you goad me into breaking your arm in three places and then I go back to being 'my true self' and we divorce our respective spouses and go off to live happily in Transylvania. So glad you've got it all figured out."

Letting his hands slip from her shoulders, Lucas turned away.

"No, this is the scene where I apologize and leave you alone. I'm sorry, Wednesday. You're an adult; you can make your own decisions."

She should have still been angry. Marching back inside to her loving husband and perfect life was the accepted response in this situation. But...well, it had been seven years since her last decent conversation. And old friends could be forgiven.

"Just think about what you're saying next time," she said. Her heels clicked against the water-swollen boards as she moved to stand at the other end of the pier.

"So, what about your wife?"

"Janie," Lucas replied. His gaze never shifted from the reflected moon. "We dated in high school and met up again at the five-year reunion. You probably saw her inside- red hair, brown eyes, silver dress?"

Wednesday nodded. "I saw her; everyone did. Half the men can't take their eyes off her."

Another awkward silence; they were becoming a regular fixture of the night. Lucas stared up at the moon, huge and full. Crickets chirped somewhere in the reeds around the wooden structure, of the sort that seemed created to highlight lack of conversation.

"Wednesday?"

"Yes?"

"Not to beat a dead horse, but...what would have happened if I'd followed you?"

"Stop it, Lucas. Just stop," she sighed, turning to head back to the party. "That bridge is already crossed."

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><p><strong>AN:** Many thanks to **Gleefully Wicked** for pointing out an unintentional characterization mistake. :)


	2. Truce

**A/N:** This is a continuation of the oneshot, "A Couple of Things Get Lost." Apparently I'm incapable of not writing WxL, even in an AU. [sigh] Enjoy, and I still do not own any characters but Josh and Janie.

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><p>The knock on the door, when it comes, is not entirely unexpected.<p>

Maybe it's the late hour. Or maybe it's the wine that has been slowly draining from his glass over the course of the evening. (He can't actually remember, now, how many times the glass has been refilled. He dimly thinks that's probably not a good sign.) But for some reason, he's waiting in the foyer when the three sharp, insistent taps disrupt the rhythm of the summer rain.

But what he sees beyond the door defies even that strange expectation.

A young woman stands there, soaked to the skin in jeans and a cream-colored sweater. Mascara runs down her face in rivulets, mixing into a colorless mess with blush, lipstick, and god-knows-what-else. Her long, black hair is plastered to her neck, and her eyes, under the sickly yellow glow of the porch light, look slightly crazed.

"I caught him in bed with his secretary. It was either stay or leave- and I didn't know anywhere else to go."

It's quite possibly the fastest Lucas Beineke has ever sobered up in his life. Wordlessly, he steps to one side and gestures for her to enter.

She hesitates, raising one eyebrow. "Your wife?"

Her expression changes from dubiousness to shock when he bursts out laughing. Laughter, he tells himself, that can be blamed squarely on the wine. He runs a hand through his hair and opens the door still wider.

"I don't have a wife. Come on in," he says, still chuckling slightly. Though the woman looks at him as one might look at a rabid dog, she slowly steps inside.

Lucas leads her toward the kitchen, flicking on lights- _did I really leave them all off?_- as he goes. "Bathroom's over there if you need it. There should be some towels in the linen closet." Each statement is accompanied by a vague gesture in the direction of the room in question- or at least, as close to it as he can manage. Walking is taking a lot more concentration than it probably should, and the words sound slurred even to him.

The woman...no, call a spade a spade. He might as well, since nothing about this situation makes sense anyway. _Wednesday_ shoots a surreptitious glance at the glass still loosely clutched in his hand. "Lucas?"

"It's been four weeks, three days, and twelve hours since I last heard you say my name. What?"

"Ignoring that bizarre and troubling statement," she says, rolling her eyes, "how many of those have you had?"

Oh, right. Wine. He _has_ been drinking a lot of it tonight, and decides that honesty is the best policy. "A lot."

The look on her face isn't right, Lucas thinks. It's too much like the next-to-last time he saw her.

_"Are you in or what?"_

And he just stood there, like an idiot, calling after her lamely but not actually following. He didn't follow her, and that's where everything started to go wrong. The root of tonight, and all the many fiascos that led here.

"I should have followed you," he mumbles, and suddenly the floor tilts beneath his feet. There's a tinkle of glass shattering as the glossy hardwood looms uncomfortably close. The phrase "falling-down drunk" comes to mind, but suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

A dark-eyed face looms, blurry, in his field of vision (or possibly two faces; it keeps shifting). "Right," the face says in a familiar voice. "I doubt you're going to be conscious much longer."

Lucas was never sure, afterwards, how he got over to the couch; logic said that she was too small to support his weight from the kitchen to the living room. But then again, logic and Wednesday Addams seldom had anything to do with each other. But the next thing he would remember was lying on the red leather upholstery, a blanket haphazardly thrown over his feet and his ex-fiancée watching him silently from an armchair across the room.

"I love you," he says.

She doesn't reply. It's the kind of thing he shouldn't be saying to her, not after their last encounter. But it's late and it's raining; he's drunk, she's desperate, and neither of them really has anywhere else to go.

_Maybe that's how it is_, Lucas thinks, drifting off to sleep. _When there's nowhere else, we go to each other._

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><p>There was not enough coffee in the world to combat this hangover. Over 23 years, Lucas has come to think of himself as fairly experienced with regard to the after-effects of alcohol. This hangover, throbbing headache, dry mouth, churning stomach, and all, makes every prior experience seem like a walk in the park.<p>

And when he stumbles into the living room, the rest of last night's aftermath becomes apparent.

_Wednesday Addams is sitting on my sofa. _He closes his eyes and counts to ten, but when he opens them, she's still there.

A large book lies open in her lap, something leather-bound and unrecognizable. No luggage had been apparent last night, though, so it must be one of his. The no-luggage memory is further reinforced by her clothing: the same jeans and sweater as before, albeit dry. She appears to have washed off her makeup, revealing that time hasn't changed her bloodless skin and slightly sunken eyes. Her hair is twisted up and held in place with a pencil, but a few strands seem to be making valiant attempts to escape.

It isn't until she looks up and catches his eye that Lucas realizes he's been staring.

"Good morning," she says, closing the book and laying it to one side.

"Morning," he answers.

They stare at each other a bit awkwardly, neither wanting to speak first. Last night, their situation could be blamed on the weather, blamed on the alcohol, or on a dozen other things that neither of them could _really_ control. Today, however, is a different matter.

After a moment, Lucas looks away. He turns and starts for the kitchen, eyes firmly fixed on the coffee-maker- only to stop at the sound of a voice behind him.

"So she filed for divorce." It's not a question.

"What...how…" he begins, frantically searching for the right way to phrase a dozen questions at once. When he looks back, Wednesday hasn't moved from the couch, but she's now holding up a large, white envelope.

"I found this in your office. Or at least, I guessed it was your office; bookshelves and a desk of official-looking papers seemed pretty telling," she says evenly. Lifting the envelope's flap, she pulls out the letter inside and begins to read aloud.

"Lucas, I'm sorry, but I just can't do this anymore. This marriage has to end; it'll be better for both of us. I hope there will be no hard feelings-"

He storms back into the living room, cutting her off mid-sentence. "You read my mail?"

With a slightly incredulous look, she replies simply, "Yes."

"But- but...it's private! Why would you do something like that?"

She rolls her eyes and sets the letter aside. "Why _wouldn't_ I? Seemed like I might as well fall off the wagon all at once and get it over with." Then, she opens the book and removes the pencil from her hair; the black strands tumble down like a curtain around her face, effectively ending the conversation.

Judging by the period scratching sounds, she's writing in his book. He really should be angry- after all, she's a guest in his house- but it's 8:30 AM, the sunlight slanting through the blinds makes his head throb even more, and coffee, blessed coffee, is just a few yards away. So he wanders off, leaving her to her petty vandalism.

About an hour later, a few snippets of one-sided conversation reach his ears through the kitchen door.

"…need to come home, if you'll be in at all…"

"I know. I _know_, but…"

"...a mistake, and I said I was sorry, all right?"

"Well, you shouldn't have been worried; you know I can…"

"...Lucas' house. Yes, that Lucas."

"Mother, don't you _dare_ say that. If you- no, if you say 'I told you so,' one more time…"

"Yes. Around 2:30. Fine. Goodbye."

As quiet footsteps approach the kitchen, Lucas sips his coffee and tries studiously to arrange his face into an innocent, "Who, me? Eavesdrop?" expression. But when she appears in the doorway looking faintly terrified, he can't resist preemptively answering the question on her lips.

"Just give me ten minutes to get dressed, and we'll go," he says, draining the purple mug's contents. Even through the pain of a hangover- and the knowledge that he just agreed to drive to New York with a hangover- the look of surprise on her face makes him almost want to laugh.

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><p><strong>AN:** Okay, first of all, this is definitely NOT where "A Couple Of Things Get Lost" was first going when I wrote it. Originally, I was just going to leave it at the oneshot and let our star-cross'd lovers be miserable for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, the heavily-armed leader of the plot bunnies had different ideas. So I sat down to write a sequel oneshot.

Long story short, at this point it's looking like this story may end up being more like a four-shot. Three-shot at least**. Gleefully Wicked** is partially to blame. So I figured it'd be better to give it a home of its own. :)


	3. Give In, Don't Fight

**A/N: **It's time to play, "Guess What Eryn Doesn't Own!"

T_E _ DDA _ _ F_ _ IL _ .

[Hint: Oh, come on. What fandom is this?]

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><p>"Are you sure you want to do this?"<p>

"No, but I have to."

It's the third time they've had this exchange, or some variant on it. For about two hours now Lucas has driven in silence, eyes on the road and mind frantically attempting to focus on anything but what he's doing. It's nothing, really. Just a favor to an old friend; driving her home as a courtesy. Certainly nothing more.

He manages to convince himself of this until the second minor traffic jam, when he glances surreptitiously at her. She's staring fixedly out the window with a vaguely uncomfortable expression- as if she'd rather be anywhere else. The whole scene is so familiar that it just slips out before he can stop himself-

"You should put your seatbelt on."

The withering look that comes his way only reinforces the surreal feeling that they've gone back in time. "Lucas," she replies, "My seatbelt _is_ on."

The long, honking line of cars moves forward about a foot, snapping his attention back to the road. When they stop again, he shoots her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. It's just that you never used to and...well, old habits die hard, you know?"

Her gaze shifts back to a patch of scrubby trees beside the highway. "I know."

Over the next twenty minutes or so, the red Civic inches forward; the inches turn to feet, which turn to yards. Finally the traffic clears and they're once again racing towards New York. Around the same time Lucas finally manages to accelerate back to 70, Wednesday seems to jerk herself away from the window and slumps slightly against the gray upholstery.

"That was a lie," she says without looking at her former fiancé. Lucas blinks, but doesn't take his eyes off the road.

"What?"

"I do want to do this. Or at least, I think I do."

She massages her forehead slightly, the slight discomfort on her face now replaced with what almost looks like fear. But he knows better- there's no way Wednesday Addams can possibly be afraid. There has to be some other reason she's now twisting her hands in her lap, fidgeting in her seat, staring at the windshield intently enough to burn a hole in it. Fear isn't even in her repertoire of emotions.

_Is it?_

"Why did you marry him?" The question surprises even Lucas himself, but once it's out he realizes it's been on the tip of his tongue since last night.

"We've been over this," she replies tersely.

"Not really." Flicking on the blinker, he steers the car toward the exit ramp. "You never did give me a straight answer."

_And you're not about to get one_, he imagines her saying; the probability that he'll get any other response for his trouble is low. But as the car turns sharply into a large cloverleaf, she surprises him.

"I was brought up a certain way, and around sixth grade, I realized that the rest of the world...wasn't. Nobody else in my family could see it, and I remember wondering how they could be so _blind_…" She trails off with a humorless chuckle.

"Then I started wondering if maybe we were wrong and other people were right. I'd only ever known one way of life, and they say the grass is always greener on the other side. And the normal people, the people my parents pitied and looked askance at- they had _more_. They had the world, and all we had was a derelict house and a cemetery in the middle of Central Park."

When Wednesday stops fiddling with a loose thread on her sweater and resumes staring out the window, Lucas thinks the conversation's over.

"Things changed when I met you."

Or maybe not.

"Suddenly it seemed like I could have my cake and eat it, too. I could keep one foot in each world; have what outsiders had and still be myself. Somebody who wasn't a relative or a friend of the family loved me the way I was."

Mentally, he's begging her not to say it. This is neither the time nor the place to air dirty laundry, not on the outskirts of New York City with the noonday sun gleaming on the cars around them and tension already palpable in the air. Better to wait until the next several heated moments have passed and they can talk about such things like rational adults.

"And I loved him, too. But he walked away, and I realized I had to choose after all," she says quietly, without meeting his eyes. Because they've never been rational adults.

Lucas' throat suddenly seems to close up. "Wednesday-" he begins, but she cuts him off with a curt, "Turn here." And they continue like that, not saying several important things, until the rusted, semi-sentient iron gate slams shut behind the Civic.

"Hello?"

The entrance hall looks deserted, but that's no surprise. What does puzzle Lucas somewhat is the layer of dust over everything: floorboards, banister, even the cobwebbed chandelier. Beyond deserted, the house looks as if no-one's lived there for a long time. He tries to remember if this is its normal state, and still can't be sure.

Wednesday swallows hard and calls again. "Mother? Father? It's me, Wednesday."

A dramatic sniff echoes from a curtained-off alcove near the stairs. The thick, velvet folds are drawn back, revealing a tall, gaunt, black-haired woman in an incredibly low-cut dress.

"Wednesday? Who is that? I really can't recall," the newcomer says in a voice like warm velvet. Lucas' former intended rolls her eyes.

"Your daughter, the one who lived here for nineteen years."

Morticia slowly pulls a black, lace-trimmed handkerchief from the front of her dress and dabs at her eyes. "I have no daughter. No child who truly loved her mother would run away without so much as a note, causing her family untold agony over two long years without the slightest bit of contact."

"No child of mine," she continues, dropping the Bereaved Mother act (and the handkerchief) to become the Stalwart Woman Scorned, "would marry a man who belongs...to a _country club_."

Wednesday glares at her. "Mother," she says dryly, "you just said you'd had no contact with me for two years. So how do you know I was even married?"

The façade cracks a bit as Morticia frantically tries to backpedal. "Well, I...er… might have gleaned some small tidbits of information from...ah… desperate, heartfelt attempts to locate my only daughter."

"The daughter you just said you didn't have?"

"You know, you don't always have to do that. There's nothing wrong with making life a bit more glamorous."

"This isn't the-"

A shout from the top of the stairs interrupts the mother/daughter reunion- accompanied by the clatter of several large, heavy metal objects falling to the floor. "_Paloma!_"

And then the tension seems to disappear, leaving only a (mostly) ordinary reunion of parents and estranged child. Gomez shoots down the stairs like a swarthy, pudgy rocket, sweeping his daughter into his arms and chattering in a rapid mixture of Spanish and English. It's completely incomprehensible to Lucas, but Wednesday seems to be able to keep up.

"_Sí, Papa, yo_- no, he just drove me and- _ya sabes que no me casé con Lucas_- his name was Joshua Wilkerson, and I caught him in bed with- _por supuesto tengo planes para ellos, pero_- yes, Father, it's been a long time…"

This goes on for a while, with Morticia standing quietly aloof; Lucas could swear that, out of the corner of his eye, he catches her smiling slightly. But when he turns his attention to her, any trace of a happy expression vanishes. She stalks over to him, the "tentacles" at the bottom of her dress rustling against the floor.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" she asks in the faintest of whispers- and a tone that suggests the wrong answer will have very unpleasant consequences.

"No," he replies, and that seems sufficient, for she immediately turns back to her husband and daughter.

"Gomez, darling, I'm sure Wednesday's tired. After all, she's had a very trying...er...while. There will be plenty of time to catch up later."

Taking the younger woman's hand, she begins to lead her up the stairs. "Come along, dear; we'll see if we can't find you some decent clothes. And your room's exactly the way you left it."

The earlier animosity between them seems to have vanished, blown over just like every Addams crisis does. The family, Lucas dimly remembers, argues like a cannon fires- one loud bang and a lot of smoke, and then everything's back to normal.

_For some value of the word "normal."_

Gomez, having collected his rapiers, approaches Lucas. The Spaniard firmly grasps his hand and shakes it. "Thank you, sir, for bringing my daughter back to me."

Then he walks away, and Lucas is left alone in the massive, empty foyer. Suddenly, he becomes painfully aware of the situation: he is still an outsider. One who has performed a valuable service, true, but still part of the misguided masses- a high school English teacher, for goodness' sake. He is part of the vast, faceless _them_, and he didn't belong here.

For the third time, he's let her walk out of his life. Inwardly kicking himself, he opens the creaking front door and slips out into the clear June night.

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><p><strong>AN:** Well, that's all, folks! I hope you enjoyed it, and it was such a relief to be able to write Wednesday back where she belongs- which was the point of this story all along, of course. I just couldn't leave her hanging like that. Shame about Lucas, but he'll get over it, right? :)

…I'm kidding; I'm kidding! Put the crossbows down! There's still at least one more chapter, I promise!

(The Spanish bits translate as follows: "Yes, Father, I...you already know I didn't marry Lucas...of course I have plans for them, but…" I've always figured the Addams children would be bilingual, but never had a chance to work it in before. Apologies if any of it's off; it's been a few months since I last took Spanish.)


	4. The Mist Has Lifted

**A/N:** I'm not dead yet! I'm getting better!

Alternately, I WAS dead and got resurrected. Did you know there's a fandom where you can do that? Well, not anymore, since they used up all the- ***SMACK*** Ahem. Sorry. My fandom-mind has been seeing other '90s Christina Ricci movies on the sly. Eheheheheh. ^^"

Anyway, enjoy this (very short) chapter. I still don't own any of the characters involved.

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><p>"How long have you been standing in the shadows?"<p>

"Not long enough."

There's no wine to blame it on this time; no summer rain, either, and it's only 9:00. To make matters worse, the moon has just risen, full and clear and lending an entirely too-romantic glow to the scene. Standing in the graveyard like this, it's impossible to deny what he's really thinking.

_She's beautiful._

"Falling off the wagon" really does seem to have been an apt term. The woman in the shadowy doorway of the largest mausoleum looks, if not exactly like his former fiancée, like the logical progression. Same short, black dress, same boots, same collarbone-length hair. Only the look of real sadness in her eyes mars the resemblance.

"I tried so hard." She shakes her head slowly, scuffing the toe of one boot in the dirt. "But in the end..."

"You couldn't be normal if your life depended on it."

"Especially not then- my life is almost always in some kind of danger."

A whippoorwill's eerie cry fills the air, cutting through the symphony of crickets. The night seems to be holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.

And when their eyes meet, it does.

Neither of them will ever be able to remember, in the days and years to come, who'd moved first. But within seconds, they're in each other's arms; it seems to Lucas that he will never be able to get close enough to her. Any moment he expects to wake up, back in the bed in the house in Egg Harbor City and alone with his thoughts.

She's there, though, and real, with her arms wrapped like a vise around his neck and her lips hungrily pressed to his. Wednesday is in his life once more; he wonders, for the hundredth time, why he ever let her go.

_I'm never making that mistake again._

Only when she pulls away with a slightly quizzical expression did he realize he'd said that out loud.

"What mistake?"

Honesty is probably the best policy, and why not? "Not going after you. Letting you go."

Her eyes search his, abruptly becoming solemn. Finally, she replies, "You'll never have the chance to do that again."

It isn't until several hours later, when he's crouched in the bushes beneath the front window of a pastel-painted beach house on the Jersey Shore, clutching a ticking box and praying it doesn't go off until the concrete in the catapult nearby has hardened, that he remembers the less-than-wonderful aspects of being in love with Wednesday Addams.

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><p><strong>AN:** Apologies for the miniscule chapter, but I just wanted to get an updated posted since it's been so long. I'll try to make the next one longer- oh yes, there's a next one. You don't think Wednesday's just going to let her soon-to-be-ex-husband get away with this, do you? ;)


	5. Yes, I'm Deranged

**A/N:** Procrastination, dear readers, is like a lovelorn squid. Once it has you in its tentacles, good luck making it let go. ^^" Anyway, here is the incredibly belated conclusion of the story. Again, I only own Josh and Margo (though I'd rather not).

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><p>Soft candlelight flickers off the walls of the bedroom, and outside the little beach house, waves gently lap the shore. It is, Josh Wilkerson reflects, a beautiful setting- and the brunette who lies beside him, clad only in white satin sheets, makes the whole thing even more perfect. As he idly trails one hand down his secretary's tanned thigh, she opens her eyes and smiles up at him.<p>

"Mm...that feels nice," she purrs, stroking his cheek.

"And so does that. And so do a lot of other things, as you may recall." His hand begins moving slowly upwards, toward the inside of her leg- only to be stopped when she suddenly sits up.

"Josh" she asks, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, "are you sure your wife won't bother us?"

The young advertising executive laughs. "Is that what's been on your mind? Trust me, we don't have to worry about her."

"But she did seem kind of upset when...you know, back at your house."

"Trust me, Margo," he says, "Wednesday's not going to come near us. She's not the type to go for revenge. I'll probably just get the divorce papers in the mail soon and that'll be that. Now kiss." He draws her gently back down onto the bed, and the small room is once again relatively silent.

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><p>"Are you sure this is a good idea?"<p>

"Of course not. Now pass me that rope."

As he runs a thick, knotted rope under the catapult and hands it to his..._lover? Ex-fiancée?_, Lucas Beineke can think of any number of safer places to be. On safari, for example, without a gun or any mode of transportation. Or maybe in the Siberian tundra, wearing only a baseball cap. Because Wednesday has that look in her eye which, especially combined with several pounds of explosives, means that somebody's probably going to die.

"Alright," she says, dusting off her hands. "You know the plan?"

Lucas sighs, but dutifully recites, "I ring the doorbell, then run back to position under the window. Once he's following the trail-" indicating a long line of footprints he'd made in the sand, leading away from the cottage's door- "I give you the signal to let the catapult go. Then I throw the bomb through the window."

"And…?" she prompts. He raises one eyebrow, shaking his head blankly.

After a few seconds, she groans and grabs the front of his shirt to pull him closer. "And then you get yourself a safe distance away. Lucas, I know you're not a moron, so please don't give such a good impression of one."

Before he has a chance to respond, she presses a quick kiss on his lips and releases him. "Now go. We only get one chance to do this right."

The young poet nods and, as she crouches down in the tall grass by the catapult trigger, carefully approaches the weathered door and knocks three times. Before it can be answered, he's sitting under the windowsill on the other side of the house. From his position against the pastel-painted wooden wall, he hears the door open...then shut, and soft footsteps start across the sand.

_Here we go. _His red bandana flashes through the still night air; the ropes of the catapult creak in response. The calm beach is about to get a good deal more dangerous. For some reason, Lucas suddenly regrets that there's not a "guido" in sight.

* * *

><p><em>This isn't happening. This can't be happening.<em>

Josh Wilkerson is a 30-year-old accountant. Until tonight, he had a thriving practice, a reputation as the most skilled golfer in town, a pretty (if rather quiet) 22-year-old wife, and a luscious blonde on the side.

Now he has a pile of smoldering rubble and a madwoman threatening him with a knife. How could life change so quickly?

The woman before him, he thinks, is probably his wife. Every logical part of his mind says she must be his wife; she has the same dark hair, the same large, brown eyes, the same slender build. Except this woman has paper-white skin, and Josh can't recall ever seeing his wife in black or armed.

Or with an expression that suggests she could gut him where he stands and find the whole thing utterly dull.

Wednesday- if it really is Wednesday- tilts her head slightly to one side. "You've been unfaithful, Joshua. And do you know what happens to unfaithful husbands?"

He swallows hard; this is somehow not the same woman he married. "They get served with divorce papers?"

"Not in my family," she replies, running one finger down the gleaming blade of the dagger. Josh is rapidly beginning to doubt that it's fake. He takes a step back, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Face still completely blank, she follows him.

"Women in my family don't have unfaithful husbands, Josh. Because if an Addams catches her husband with somebody else, he never gets a chance to do it again."

She continues to advance on him, the knife glittering in the moonlight. "I don't think you're going to like what's about to happen. See, I have to cut your chest open, remove your still-beating heart, take it back home, and burn it on a specific crypt in the family cemetery."

Rough concrete presses against his back; they've somehow reached one of the boardwalk supports, and the adulterer is cornered. Wednesday comes still closer, until she's close enough that he can feel her breath on his lips. He wonders, for a moment, if she'll kiss him, lower the dagger, say that she was just trying to scare him and ask if they can work this out. For a moment, he lets himself breathe again.

And then cold steel is pressing against his throat, just barely hard enough to break the skin and banish all thoughts of reconciliation.

Oh god, she's really going to do it. I'm about to die.

Joshua Wilkerson seldom remembers his family's history of heart problems. In spite of the doctor's frequent warnings to be careful, he's never altered his diet or avoided strenuous physical activity. Only now, as he crumples to the ground, does he briefly remember the elderly woman's words.

"...and severe shocks, too- sometimes those can do more damage than anything else."

After a few seconds, Wednesday stoops to check his pulse. Then she straightens, smiling ever so slightly, and makes her way back toward the ruins of the beach house.

* * *

><p>"How'd it go?"<p>

She glances up at Lucas, smirk widening. "Let's just say Josh Wilkerson is no longer a concern."

He drops a few charred pieces of wood back on the pile of rubble and smiles crookedly. Though he'd never admit it, part of him is relieved to have the whole thing over with. But then again, that's how it's always been- she's like a tornado, and one has to either commit to the whole ride or run like hell in the opposite direction.

"What about the secretary?" Her voice brings him back to reality, and he shrugs.

"I saw her come running out once the concrete hit, but her arm was at kind of a weird angle. She'll probably live, if that's what you're asking."

Wednesday pokes a mass of congealed rubber with the toe of her boot. "It doesn't matter," she says philosophically. "She wasn't my primary target."

The beach is silent, save for the soft crashing of the surf and the cry of an occasional seabird. At last, Lucas reaches out and takes her hand.

"So," he asks, staring into her brown eyes, "what happens now?"

"Now…" She rubs her thumb absently against the back of his hand, seemingly lost in thought.

"Now we do what we should have done five years ago."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Yes! I managed to make it not end with Wednesday and Lucas snogging while something blew up in the background! :D


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